La Bella Donna
by ch1ps0h0y
Summary: Sometimes love is a slow poison, fed to you in increments. (10069)


_(Only half of this work could be safely posted here. The rest of the story is too explicit to be published on Fanfiction . net - if you would like to read the rest, please follow this link: __ch1ps0h0y dreamwidth org 42073 html_ [dots needed between every word except 'org' and '42073', which requires a / instead] _)_

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**I. **_**Broken Straw and Wild Tansy**_

The delicate bloom which rests on the stark white of his pillow seems out of place in such a sterile environment. The colours are striking, hurtful to his eye as much as its natural curves and soft edges, soft petals, relax him, conflict with the harsh lines of his colour-leeched room. He has to suffer such intrusions each morning: he will wake after a restless night's sleep to find the flower laid by the curling locks of his long, dark hair. Close enough to smell. Close enough to startle him from his slumber, and prompt him to crush the thing beneath the heel of his boot.

He stares at the twisted mess of snow-white, golden yellow and verdant fibres devoid of its former beauty. His heart beats quickly, yet to settle from the rush of adrenaline which tore him out of his bed to destroy this precious gift from the outside. This breath of life.

He does not turn as a panel hisses open behind him. He can tell who it is by the way the feet step lightly, the way they _emphasise_ their existence by stepping on the heel and following through to the ball of the foot. They click their tongue - in disappointment or chiding he cannot tell - when their eyes fall upon the disfigured bloom.

"It's a shame to waste such a pretty gift."

He hates that voice as much as he now despises the rotting husk dying by his feet. He neither turns nor responds to the musical voice whose question floats after him.

"Won't you join me for breakfast?"

The bathroom door shuts pointedly; the lock clicks. Alone in the cold, tiled confines, he rests his forehead against the smooth surface. Just beyond waits the one with power enough to make even this thick metal panel crumble like flimsy aluminium foil. And it will, if he remains here; an invitation delivered in such sweet, honeyed tones leaves no room for argument or excuses. He drifts wraithlike to the inset mirror above the firmly fixed porcelain sink and examines the image reflected.

Resignation paints the shadows in his haggard face. It deepens the lines of fret and worry which have eaten away at him since his internment of countless hours and countless days. His beautiful indigo silk tresses hang lank and dull over his shoulders, tangling his fingers when he cards them through the wispy strands. A lighter-hued eye that contains the barest spark of life takes in all this and his thin frame - so thin that the bones protrude through the skin. What is left of his other eye is hidden beneath a wad of bandages held in place by a shoddy eye patch.

Nothing can be done to salvage his appearance, so he merely splashes his face with water, goes through the motions of those daily human necessities before he steps out. Straight into the arms of his jailer.

"...Haven't you been eating, Mukuro-kun?"

Hands trace his collarbone, roam down his arms then almost tenderly feel the skeleton of his hand. Pale, icy fingers tilt his chin up to meet their dreaded eyes and they ask, oh so softly:

"Well?"

What can he say to refute that simple word?

When it becomes clear he will not answer, they shake their head and fold him into their arms, murmuring in a dangerously low voice, "Remember, you are not allowed to die without my permission, my beauty." Their hand tightens on his wrist.

His breath hitches but he does not squirm. If he does they will snap the bone, and he needs every part of his body intact.

_Why?_

The pressure lessens and he draws his arm back as soon as he is able. The hand which threatened to deal him harm now rests lightly in the small of his back, guiding him outside the room by his jailer's side. The panel which keeps him confined slides open at their touch, revealing a corridor stretching out on either side. White, replaced by more white with little variation. Brown, black, grey.

The barrier restricting his mental faculties runs through the entirety of the facility. He quests for the beacon that is his body so that he may return. Each morning he holds out on the hope that the barrier will weaken, that they will fail for the briefest of moments to allow him to slip away, out of the demon's grasp.

Hope is the cruellest of torture's instruments.

He keeps his head bowed. Many of the other man's underlings hurry past them, sparing no more than a curious glance, if that. They know he is a prisoner though he wears no shackles. His dishevelled clothing and unkempt appearance distance him from their pristine uniforms and clean-shaven features. It is worse than the bloodstains which had initially coated him.

"This way," his jailer says cheerfully, though they need not have bothered; he has memorised the route to where they will dine and turns automatically towards the appropriate door, opened graciously by his jailer for him to step through first.

There is a banquet laid out for them both. Simple fare, but plenty of it. Racks of well-toasted bread are set out next to nondescript pots of dark red jam and a sizeable slab of butter. Pancakes are stacked within reaching distance and a bottle of dark syrup stands ready for use beside them. There is also a choice of bacon and eggs should something more substantial be desired, the combined smell reminding him of easier, more peaceful times when he had enjoyed such a breakfast at leisure in the company of friends. ('Friends', he muses; once he would have called them enemies.) Their cutlery is set beside spotless white plates upon which lays neatly-folded napkins. He takes his accustomed seat to the left and to the side of the lone one at the head of the table.

As he stares at their morning repast he wonders, what poison has been added this morning, and to what?

The smiling demon silently taking his seat at the head of the table offers no hints, only promises - _something_ is tainted; it is up to him to discover what it is. Immune to all deadly substances, watching what the man ate served no purpose. It was a game. A game of chance.

It all looks so innocent. Perfectly cooked, perfectly fried, perfectly toasted. A less knowledgeable person would think surely none of them are laced with poison. But he knows better. Behind the innocent facade lies a deadly danger; hidden within the lie of safety is a threat.

With their narrowed eyes upon him, he selects a piece of toast from the rack. There is another trick to this - not all of the bread is harmful. Again, it will be chance that determines whether or not he survives. Sometimes he does. Most times he does not.

The piece of bread hovers by his lips. The man was right; he _hadn't_ eaten for several days. He had been recovering from their last breakfast and had refused the food sent to his room in the hopes of perishing through starvation.

His hand trembles. Should it be poisoned, it will ensure a more swift death than starvation.

Before his captor can comment on his hesitation, he bites into the toast and tears away a piece, chewing thoroughly. His teeth make short work of the slice and soon the whole thing is devoured. He sits back, waiting.

Waiting.

He begins to feel disappointed; luck has been with him, it seems. As he reaches for another piece, he gasps: an acute pain, like a stab in the gut, abrupt - _agonising_ - forces him to double over with a whimper. Something is ripping through his insides. Something that is trying to tear him apart. As if a creature has affixed its claws in his intestines and is rending them through with blunt nails. They dig deep these claws, crushing the dark pink flesh between them and squeezing. _Squeezing_. He writhes, he cries. He coughs and flecks of blood spot the white table cloth.

He is dying.

His chair slides back with a screech as he falls to his knees on the floor, curled into a tight ball as he pants and howls from the agony. Someone else knelt beside him, stroked his neck soothingly as his body shudders in its death throes.

"Does it hurt, Mukuro-kun? Does it hurt to die?"

Crimson trickles thickly from his lips. Blood spray coats the ground. The other man wipes some away from his chin and rubs it between his fingers with a curious smile on his face. They caress his cheeks as he heaves, vomiting yet more blood from his failing organs.

Casually, the white demon draws out a syringe from one of the inner pockets of his uniform jacket. It is already filled with an amount of clear liquid. All that is needed is to attach the needle, tap the cylinder and then hold him still enough to inject it into his arm.

The sting of it sliding in to his vein goes unnoticed. In twenty seconds, his quaking and heaving have settled down. In sixty it has ceased completely. Blood continues to drip from the corner of his mouth and he takes weak, shallow breaths. Having served its purpose, the needle is discarded. Now the man holds him tightly, making hushing noises like a mother to a child as tears dribble down his cheeks.

"Sleep, kitten, sleep..."

Pain fades to an ache, eased away by gentle words and a gentle hand. His eyes flutter closed, their last image being of lavender eyes and a fond smile, dissolving into the unconscious abyss.

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**II. **_**Hundred-leaved Rose**_

There was a sound which he could not hear that was calling to him. It beckoned to him and pulled at him as if there was a fine thread fixed to the core of his being. He could not answer the summons for there was something preventing him: a formless wall which barred him from setting foot beyond his confines while the thread trailed undeterred and faded into the blackness. There was light but there was no light. He could see the thread as if it was the brightest thing yet it emitted none of its own radiance. It defied the inkiness by flashing its colours as if it were a clear day.

It led to the one who called to him, he was sure. He only had to follow the vermilion strand to where the mournful peal of a bell rang sonorously from afar. Like a death knell, he chuckled to himself. In any case, he could not stay. This place was never meant for more than a transition between states, a separation between the living and the dead wherein those with strong will had a chance to elude Death and the others were sent to their final rest.

That luxury was not his. His soul would transmigrate, keeping with it the memories and experiences engraved into his essence. He had walked the six Paths so he almost looked forward to seeing what the seventh would bring. For now, he closed his eyes...and dreamt.

Mukuro awakens with a start. The sheets slither down his naked body with a dry rustle, pooling about his slender legs as he levers himself up and stares blankly at his empty room. He has no need to question his survival for it is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that he is forced into enduring the pain still wracking his weak body. Toys such as he are only worth as much as the amusement they bring while alive. He hasn't broken from the strain yet and he does not plan to.

The scent of food evokes his hunger and the illusionist's nose follows it to the small bedside table fixed with close-fitting metal staples to the floor. Upon it sits a bowl of warm soup, a portion of crusty bread and an apple, and he is drawn to it like a starving man drawn towards a feast. He stirs the thick, tepid liquid and notes the presence of soft potato and unidentifiable green. Leek, he supposes. His mouth, dry upon waking, is now thick with saliva.

"Hungry, Mukuro-kun?"

It's as if he's been jolted by a surge of electricity; the spoon falls back into the bowl with a splash and he yanks the sheets back up level with his chest. The don laughs at him, a gleam of amusement in his eye as he sits on the edge of the mattress.

"Embarrassed?" Byakuran croons. He pats the leg beside him which twitches out of his reach, bringing forth a chuckle this time. Without any further words, the white-haired man takes the bowl of soup into his hands and holds out a spoonful of it.

Mukuro's suspicious frown is taken with good humour on the other's part. "It's all right," the don says. "Eat."

It does little to assuage his suspicions. But Byakuran is not giving him a choice. Cautiously, he parts his lips, forcing the other man to lean forward and administer the liquid to his patient. The room (or cell) he has been so graciously given is as sterile in atmosphere as it is in appearance. A hospital minus the smell of disinfectant, a prison and a ward - so many uses for a single room bathed in white.

The Millefiore leader feeds him, spoonful by spoonful, until it is all gone. It is when the other man's thumb traces his parted lips that he realises there is no more to be had. He tries to bite the overly intimate appendage but it is withdrawn swiftly.

"I can't decide if you're a kitten or a puppy." Byakuran cups his cheek tenderly, holding back a smirk at the look of simmering outrage on the illusionist.

"Neither," he rasps, throat raw from the bile he had brought up along with the contents of his stomach earlier. His assertion goes unheard; the don moves his hand away and sets the empty bowl back on the table. Mukuro privately hopes that he will leave and it almost seems his hope will be realised. Byakuran begins to stand. Then with a swiftness even the illusionist has to admire, the other man swoops. Their lips are a gentle warmth against his own which nevertheless leave him frozen, startled. The don draws away before his senses can be regained, satisfaction visible in his visage.

"Rest well, Mukuro-kun." With that farewell the Millefiore leader takes his leave, leaving his prisoner to wrestle with his indignation.

The door hisses shut. Once more he is alone. His stomach is content and it only gnaws a little when he glances at the food left, but the illusionist feels no inclination to partake of them. He cannot trust that the rest of it is as safe to eat as the soup he had been fed has been. Not knowing what he can or cannot eat unless Byakuran tells him means he spends his days on the verge of starvation. None of his former strength remains - regular sickness and irregular periods of exercise (if it could be called that) allow his muscles to waste away so his figure is no longer lithe but stringy and skeletal. He had tried to escape during the initial days of his imprisonment but Byakuran had always been there to stop him, beating him to the point where it was more productive to be obedient than make attempts for freedom.

He has been tamed. He has been tamed yet he persists in his small acts of rebellion. The indomitable spirit which will not let him accept defeat rages silently at its captivity. Ah, if only the spirit was not bound by the flesh and the flesh not bound by physical matter, the spirit would have long since fled. Instead it is made to chafe and grow restless, this restlessness expressed in the physical by a ceaseless pacing about the room in which the illusionist is held. Mukuro's fingers trace the blank panel of wall that he knows is a portal to freedom but the surface defies his touch and reveals no unevenness when his nails scrape across it. And so the spirit goes unsatisfied and the pacing resumes anew.

When he tires of pacing, he sleeps. His dreams consist of blurred faces, vague, forgotten memories and the distant shores of a land beyond his reach. He no longer has control of what he dreams. He has lost his right eye in his defeat and with it the skills and abilities which had made him such a feared individual.

Strip a tyrant of his power and all that is left is the man.

Byakuran lets him alone for four days without torment before once more inviting him to his morning repast. This time Mukuro sits where he is without moving, refusing to touch what has been laid out for them. Even with eyes downcast and gaze glued to the glossy ceramic surface of his plate, he can sense the building tension and disapproval from his captor. It cannot last.

The leader of the Millefiore's chill voice cracks the solid silence. "Do you not like what food I've been giving you?"

Wasn't the answer obvious, he thinks listlessly?

His captor leans forward to take his chin between forefinger and thumb, forcing their eyes to meet. "Please?"

The unexpected coaxing, the sudden softening of tone - it throws Mukuro off-balance enough that he stares at the earnest plea in the other man's eyes, rendered mute. Byakuran continues in the same manner, nearly begging him to eat something. Half a boiled egg, even a corner of toast! It is inconceivable that the ruthless leader of the Millefiore Family would resort to such tactics to make his prisoner eat well.

No, he corrects himself: the don had more cunning than a fox and the slyness of a weasel. It is a ploy designed to lower his defences and open himself up to his captor. Clever. Did Byakuran truly think he would be fooled by such an act?

He is right. There is the coldness descending again upon the white-haired man's demeanour. Lilac pools harden into quartz and the don's face takes on a blankness which indicates that he is extremely angry.

"Very well. Perhaps starving is best for you. If you want food you must find it yourself." With that utterance, Byakuran throws down his napkin and stands. "None of this here is edible to you. You are free to leave, Mukuro-kun. You may show yourself out." Thus he strides away, radiating an aura of contained fury.

Again he is thrown. Free to leave? He is free? Surely not. There must be a number of traps waiting to activate should he move from his seat. Weight-triggered explosives? Hidden snipers? Will the opening Byakuran has left through lock him inside while the walls crush him between them? Mukuro's mind comes up with numerous possibilities in the half hour he remains locked in indecision. The fatty oil from the bacon congeals, the toast grows cold, the boiled eggs left to the air no longer look as appetising as they had when hot and fresh.

Eventually he decides that waiting is only delaying his inevitable death. If the don has so planned it, he will die no matter which course he chose. Sitting here will do nothing and he will not die a coward's death.

It takes a few attempts to stand as his legs have gone to sleep during his pondering. Mukuro's first lurch upwards and awkward fall back trigger nothing so he assays to try again. By the time he is steady, the only change perceptible in the room is the breakfast set out, growing ever stale.

There is no sound. No movement. None save his own.

The illusionist ventures forth beyond the dining room. No life stirs. No-one runs from him to raise the alarm that he is walking free. No-one crosses paths with him so he can ask for the way out.

He is completely alone.

He quickens his steps, anxious to leave before the fickle white devil can change his mind. He is free! His spirit wants to rejoice but his mind cannot help but temper enthusiasm with suspicion. It is too easy - even with Byakuran's declaration, it was impossible to not meet even one of the Millefiore's many hitmen or runners. Every room he peers into is deserted. There are no signs at all that the rooms have ever been in use. All are furnished appropriately as their use dictates but each has a stillness that is only cultivated from a long period of disuse.

_What trickery is this?_ The next room he comes across is devoid of any furnishings at all. And on it goes, each subsequent room turning up blank. Just white, white, white like a sheet of blank canvas. No, not pure white, light grey - a titanium alloy. The panels dazzle his eyes and throw shadows into sharp contrast with his surroundings so there exists only two colours: ebony and ivory, flashing at him though he tries to blink them away.

It is unnatural. The illusionist licks his lips and realises that they and his tongue are devoid of moisture. Since when? He has only been searching for a few hours, has he not? Now he realises that his limbs tremble; his knees give way and bring him to all fours where he pants, vision wavering. His throat makes the motions of swallowing but nothing goes down.

Water. Where is the water? And the grass? The wind. The trees. Cerulean, cyan, emerald, viridian.

No. No, nothing of the sort: no blue, no green, no reds or blues or blacks or yellows. No meadows with wild flowers; no deep-blue lake brimming with crystalline water; no shadowy forms of birds winging lazily in the sky. Flashes of light, awareness of movement. Warmth. Voices. But no colour, no.

Just white. Pure white.

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_(The rest of the story is too explicit to be published on Fanfiction . net - if you would like to read the rest, please follow this link: __ch1ps0h0y dreamwidth org 42073 html_ [dots needed between every word except 'org' and '42073', which requires a / instead] _)_


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